Arabian Nights and Days (15 page)

Husam al-Fiqi collapsed utterly. Doing what he could to save himself, he said, “Everything that has been said is the truth and not open to doubt.”

“What do you know about the disappearance of Zahriyar?” Dandan asked him, frowning.

“I myself investigated that and it appeared that it was her sister Gulnar who killed her, motivated by jealousy.”

Ugr was called upon to speak and he told his story from the time when he fell in love with Gulnar until the moment he slipped in among the vagabonds who had been apprehended.

The whole case was referred to the sultan Shahriyar, who ordered that Yusuf al-Tahir, being no longer fit to hold office, should be dismissed, as well as Husam al-Fiqi for having shielded his superior; that Hasan al-Attar, Galil al-Bazzaz, and Fadil Sanaan be flogged for drunkenness and riotous behavior; and that Ugr's money be confiscated and he be released.

When Dandan was alone with his daughter Shahrzad he said to her, “The sultan has changed and has become a new person full of piety and a sense of justice.”

But Shahrzad said, “There is still a side of him that is unreliable, and his hands are still stained with the blood of innocent people.”

As for Ugr, he became oblivious to his loss in the joy of escaping. He quickly revoked the contract between himself and Qamar and made his way to the date palm not far from the green tongue of land. He bowed down before the madman who was sitting cross-legged underneath it.

“I am indebted to you,” he said in gratitude, “for my life, O kindly holy man.”

S
hahriyar and Dandan plunged into the night followed by Shabeeb Rama. All human movement had come to rest. By the light of widely separated lamps, houses, shops, and mosques at slumber loomed into sight. Summer's heat had lessened and stars sparkled in the heavens.

“What is your view of what has been done?” inquired Shahriyar.

“Suleiman al-Zeini is a man who it was hoped would be governor, also his private secretary al-Fadl ibn Khaqan.”

“When the citizens are asleep, good and evil sleeps. All are infatuated with happiness, but it is as if the moon is obscured by winter clouds. Thus if the new governor of the quarter, Suleiman al-Zeini, is successful, raindrops will fall from the sky, cleansing the atmosphere of some of the dust that floats about.”

“That will be due to Almighty God and at the hand of His Majesty the Sultan and his wisdom.”

“But severity,” said Shahriyar after some thought, “must remain one of the means at the disposal of the sultan.”

Dandan, in his turn, gave the matter some thought, then replied cautiously. “Wisdom, not severity, is what Your Majesty aspires to.”

The sultan gave a laugh that rent the silence of the night.

“You are nothing but a hypocrite, Dandan,” he said. “What did the madman say? He said that if the head was sound, the whole body was sound, for soundness and corruptness come down from above. He winked at me with a boldness possessed only by madmen, but he knew all the secrets of the case. How did he come by this knowledge?”

“How would I know, Your Majesty, what goes on in the heads of madmen?”

“He claimed that he had got to know the secrets from the time he had been chief of police.”

“He is still insisting that he is Gamasa al-Bulti, a claim that is given the lie by Gamasa al-Bulti's head hanging over the door of his house. Perhaps he really is one of those who know the supernatural.”

“Shahrzad has taught me to believe what man's logic gives the lie to,” said Shahriyar as though communing with himself, “and to plunge into a sea of contradictions. Whenever night comes it seems to me that I am a poor man.”

“I fear that boredom pursues us,” said Zarmabaha to Sakhrabout.

“No, opportunities will be afforded us and opportunities will be created, O crown of intelligence,” said Sakhrabout encouragingly.

The voice of Qumqam came to them from high up in the tree. “If grumbling rings out between you, it's glad tidings of contentment.”

“You're just an impotent old man,” Zarmabaha jeered at him.

“The earth glows with the light of its Lord,” said Singam from his place alongside Qumqam, “and toward the light Gamasa al-Bulti and Nur al-Din the lover look night and day. Even Ugr is settled in his shop and has repented of his venturings. As for the bloodthirsty Shahriyar, some throb of guidance moves his frame that is so filled with spilt blood.”

“You see nothing of things but their dumb shadow,” said Sakhrabout in mockery. “Under the ashes there are live coals, and the morrow will take you from the slumber of blindness.”

The movement started with a sound as soft as silk, then exploded into the rumble of thunder. That night, at the Café of the Emirs, Ibrahim the water-carrier deviated from his normal good manners and said in a loud voice full of agitation and excitement, “Very early in the day I carried water to the Red House.”

“And what's new about that, you idiot?” Shamloul the hunchback asked him in his high-pitched voice.

Drunk with excitement, the water-carrier said, “I had a glimpse of the lady of the house—blessed be the Great Creator.”

Both those seated on the ground and those who sat cross-legged on the couches laughed.

“Look at the madness of old age,” said Ma'rouf the cobbler.

“A glance from her,” said Ibrahim sadly, “fills the stomach with ten jugs of the wine of madness.”

“Describe her to us, Ibrahim,” said the doctor Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni.

“She is not to be described, sir,” exclaimed the water-carrier, “but I ask God for mercy and forgiveness.”

Two nights later Ragab the porter said, “I was asked today to carry a load to the Red House.”

He at once attracted attention and appeared to become prey to an overwhelming emotion.

“I saw the lady of the house—I take refuge in God from the violence of beauty when it dominates.”

It was no joking matter. Men of passionate natures hurried off to inquire. They hurried off to the Weapons Market where the Red House stood: a large house that had been deserted for a long time after its owners had perished in a plague. It had been left bare and its garden had died, until it had been rented by an unknown lady from abroad accompanied by a single slave. In the dead of night, from behind its walls, could be heard magical music and singing. They said that she was a woman of easy virtue.

And so Ugr found himself madly talking about her to every client he went to.

“She has completely disrupted my vow to repent and pierced me with an arrow of everlasting torment,” he would say.

And he would say, “She summoned me to trim her locks and to pare her nails. Were she a decorous woman she would have called in a lady's maid, but she is a veritable firebrand from the Almighty.”

He had learned that her name was Anees al-Galees. So many contradictory things were said of her that doubt was stirred up even in those describing her. Some said she was fair-skinned and blonde; some that she was golden brown; some described her as plump, while others lauded her slender build. All this so inflamed the secret wells of passion that the well-to-do and the notables rushed off to take the unknown by storm.

It was Yusuf al-Tahir who was the first to start something. Since being dismissed, being a wealthy man, he had suffered from the boredom of having no work. Thus comfort and ease had come to him. At night he had gone to the Red House and knocked at the door. It had been opened to him by the slave.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I am a stranger who is seeking shelter at the house of generous people,” boldly answered the man who had for a time ruled the quarter.

The slave disappeared for a while, then returned and stood aside for him, saying, “Welcome to the stranger in the house of strangers.”

He showed him into a reception room whose walls were decorated with arabesque, the floors spread with Persian carpets, and sofas from Antioch, the whole embellished with objets d'art from India, China, and Andalusia: luxury not to be found outside the homes of princes.

A veiled woman made her appearance; her form, concealed by her Damascene garment, giving her an air of splendor.

“From what country are you, stranger?” she asked, sitting down.

“The fact is that I am a lover of life,” he said, drawing upon his vitality as though it were wine.

“By the sultan, you have deceived us.”

“My excuse,” he said with fervor, “is that a palmist has informed me that I live for beauty and will die in its cause.”

“I am a married woman,” she said in a serious tone.

“Really?” he asked anxiously.

“But I don't know when my husband will join me,” she added.

“What strange words!”

“No less strange than yours,” she muttered sarcastically.

Coyly she drew the veil from her face and there shone forth a beauty that had been created as though for him alone and which brought into being his most fugitive dreams. His mind no longer his own, he knelt down. From his pocket he took out a small ivory box; he placed it between her feet. It held a jewel that gave out a light like that of the sun. In a trembling voice he whispered, “Even the jewel of the crown is not good enough for your feet.”

He awaited the judgment that would decide his fate.

“Your greeting is accepted,” she said softly.

Rejoicing in his hope, he trembled all over. With his arms he embraced her legs, while he lowered his head and kissed her feet.

The start made by Yusuf al-Tahir was like an opening of doors to surging waves of madness that poured forth and engulfed the quarter like a deluge, striking at its richest sons. As for the poor, they were afflicted with sorrow and regret. The Red House in the Weapons Market became a focus of attention for Husam al-Fiqi, Hasan al-Attar, Galil al-Bazzaz, and others. Presents and more presents were taken there, hearts were lost and minds were led astray; extravagance and foolishness took control; possible consequences were brushed aside; the concept of time having vanished, nothing remained but the present moment, while the world, following in the footsteps of religion, became lost.

Anees al-Galees was a fascinating sorceress, loving love, loving
wealth, and loving men. No object of desire slaked her thirst and she was ever demanding more. The men vied madly with one another through love and jealousy. No single one appropriated her, no single one renounced her. All were, with one single force, descending to ruin.

Master Sahloul had not known such activity as in those days. He was the man of auctions and the first to make his appearance when bankruptcy overtook anyone. The first to fall was Husam al-Fiqi. He was concerned not so much by the loss of money as by the loss of Anees al-Galees. He was less distressed by the fate of his women and children than by being deprived of her.

“Nothing destroys a man like his own self,” he said to Master Sahloul.

“And no one can save him like his own self,” said Sahloul enigmatically.

“Exhortations were long ago bankrupt,” said al-Fiqi derisively. In his fall he was joined by Galil al-Bazzaz, then Hasan al-Attar. As for Yusuf al-Tahir, he reeled on the very edge of the abyss. Commenting on Sahloul's increasing activity, Ugr the barber said to him, “Some people benefit from the misfortunes of others.”

“It is they who are the perpetrators and they the victims,” said Sahloul with little concern.

“If only you'd seen her, master, your soul would have fretted itself to madness,” sighed Ugr sadly.

“She is nothing but the smile of a devil.”

“I am amazed at how you didn't fall in love with her.”

“The fates have ordered that in every crazy city there is to be found a single sensible man,” said Sahloul, smiling.

One night, while Sahloul was plunging leisurely through the darkness, his path was blocked by Qumqam and Singam, and they exchanged a sacred greeting.

“See the foolhardiness that is raging through the city,” said Qumqam.

“I have lived millions of years and nothing astonishes me,” said Sahloul.

“Their souls will be seized one day when they are oozing sin,” said Singam.

“Repentance may precede the coming of the hour of death.”

“Why is it not permitted to us to assist the weak?”

“God has granted them something better than you possess: a mind and a soul,” said Sahloul simply.

Husam al-Fiqi reeled drunkenly to the Red House and knocked at the large door. The cup of his madness had flowed over and had led him to the door of deliverance, but no one opened to him.

“Open, O Opener of Doors,” he shouted out angrily into the night. But no one heeded his call, so he withdrew into a corner under the wall in troubled obduracy. Soon he saw a shape approaching. Then he saw the face under the light of a hanging lamp and recognized it as that of his former chief, Yusuf al-Tahir, and he blazed up into angry wakefulness. The man knocked at the door and it was quickly opened to him. Husam al-Fiqi rushed forward in his wake, but the slave barred his way, saying, “I'm sorry, Master Husam.”

Furious, he slapped him on the face, at which Yusuf al-Tahir said to him calmly, “Bestir yourself and behave as you should.”

“Wealth and faith have been lost, so what is left to me?” he asked in anguish.

Yusuf al-Tahir turned aside to go in but the other leapt on him like a tiger, stabbing him in the heart with a poisoned dagger. At this the slave let out a scream that roused people from their sleep.

Husam al-Fiqi made no effort to flee and was arrested. Bayumi al-Armal regarded him with pity and said, “I am sorry for you, my old friend.”

“Do not be sorry, Bayumi,” Husam said quietly. “It is only an old story with which the elderly warm themselves: the story of love, madness, and blood.”

The slave said to Anees al-Galees, “My beloved Zarmabaha, soon Bayumi al-Armal, the chief of police, will honor our house with a visit.”

“As we have planned, Sakhrabout,” the woman said, “and we are awaiting him.”

“Allow me to kiss the head that contains such genius.”

The trial of Husam al-Fiqi took only moments, after which he was beheaded. The governor Suleiman al-Zeini was meeting with the chief of police. The private secretary al-Fadl ibn Khaqan and the chamberlain al-Mu'in ibn Sawi were also present. Addressing himself to Bayumi al-Armal, al-Zeini said, “What is this that the witnesses have said? Dozens of men are going bankrupt and two men lose their lives, all because of a strange and debauched woman? Where were you, chief of police?”

“Debauchery is a secret sin, while we are engaged in pursuit of the Shiites and the Kharijites,” said Bayumi al-Armal.

“No, no, you are the eye of the law of Islam. Investigate the woman. Confiscate her illegal wealth. Make good what you have failed to do before you are asked about it in front of the sultan.”

Bayumi al-Armal stood among a selected group of his men in the reception hall at the Red House looking around him and wondering. Did the sultan's palace excel this house in anything? The woman, her face veiled and her form modestly clothed, appeared.

“Welcome to the chief of police in our humble house.”

“You have no doubt learned of the crime that was committed at the entrance to your house,” he said roughly.